


sine qua non (without which not)

by Kyele



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (because ancient Rome), Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Gladiator AU, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kink Meme, M/M, Slavery, dub-con, non-explicit references to past non-con, surprisingly free of Spartacus references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3207530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kink meme: <i>The Three Gladiators AU. In the time of ancient Rome under the rule of Emperor Louis, though everyone knows that senator Richelieu all but runs everything. The famed 'Inseparables' are considered some of the best Gladiators in the whole of Rome and are crowd favorites in the Colosseum...Slash welcome, Portamis always a plus! Feel free to add any other characters you like.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=3083758#cmt3083758) on the bbcmusketeers kink meme. I kind of took the setting and ran with it. OP said they were okay with me getting Richelieu/Treville feels all over everything as long as there were still plenty of the Gladiatorial Inseparables, so I took a few liberties and did my best to please :)
> 
> The non-con references are for Aramis’ backstory as a pleasure slave. The dub-con warning is because Richelieu and Treville are master and slave (and not in the happy kinky kind of way). If that latter element concerns you, I'll put additional details in the end notes when the relevant chapter is posted. You can also go read them now in the whitetext on my fill on the kink meme. (Warning, additional details are extremely spoiler-y!)

Some things the body remembers, though the mind may do its best to forget. It’s been three years since Athos last stood in the shadows of the arena waiting for his team’s name to be called. He thought he’d forgotten the feel of a sword-hilt in his palm, pressing against his callouses. He believed he’d set aside the way anticipation and dread would curdle in his gut as he waited for his match. He wants to think the sweat breaking out on his skin, as soon as he steps from the shade of the waiting area into the harsh sun, won’t feel like an old, familiar caress. But he’s learning better now.

Aramis and Porthos stand next to him, holding a bow and an axe, respectively. Their presence is a familiar comfort. The three of them had been the most famous – and the most victorious – gladiatorial team Rome had seen in generations. Even after three years of retirement, the _Inseparables_ still have more wins in the team events than the next four teams combined.

The three of them had been slaves when they’d racked up all those victories. But even slaves are entitled to a share of the purse and the betting profits. And, unlike the captains of some of the other gladiatorial stables in Rome, Treville had always been honest with the funds. Ten years and a nearly unbroken string of victories had allowed them all to purchase their freedoms and retire from the arena.

Three years later, they’re standing here again, readying for one more fight.

“Remember, Jussac is better with the sword than with the axe,” Treville says. “Bernajoux can fight with either hand – ”

“So can I,” Athos reminds his old Captain.

Treville fixes him with a look. “Do you want my advice or not?”

“We want it,” Aramis interrupts.

“Just because you’re no longer owned by the stable – ”

“Athos is sorry,” Porthos says. “Volunteers or not, we still want your advice as much as ever.”

Both Aramis and Porthos turn to Athos. Athos nods under the weight of their combined glares.

“Please,” he says as meekly as he can.

Really, he doesn’t know what had come over him. He knows better than to interrupt the Captain. Three years of freedom, making his living as a blacksmith instead of a gladiator in the Richelieu stables, have obviously blunted his edge somewhat.

Hopefully not _too_ much. Being seriously injured or killed in the upcoming match would be problematic. Today is supposed to be a one-match-only triumphant reunion for the famous _Inseparables_. Lots of hype, plenty of action, and a fat purse for the winning team. If Athos trips over the sands of the arena and lets Jussac run him through because he didn’t listen to Treville’s advice on their opponents, Aramis and Porthos will never let him live it down.

And then there’s the other consideration. The reason the three of them have come out of their semi-peaceful retirement to fight in one more Games. That, too, would suffer from Athos’ loss.

“All right then,” Treville says, mollified. “Jussac is better with the sword, so just hold him off until the first round is over. In the second round he’ll have to switch to the axe. Bernajoux can fight with either hand. Don’t bother trying to disarm him the usual way; go for the legs instead, and he’ll give over.”

“I’ll handle him then,” Porthos says.

“No one stands up to you,” Aramis says with a smile.

Treville goes on, “The third man on their team is the new one. He’s called Bicarat, but I don’t know much about him. Senator Rochefort brought him back from Espania on his last journey. He’s said to be fierce, and I know he’ll be handling the ranged weaponry for his team.”

“That makes him my problem,” Aramis says with a nod. He’s already fingering his bow-string compulsively. “If this Bicarat’s Spanish, I should be able to predict his fighting style well enough.”

Aramis’ countenance doesn’t change when he says it, but Porthos reaches out to lay a gentle hand on his lover’s shoulder anyway. Aramis also hails from Espania. But when he’d first been brought to Rome, his fate had not been to go directly to the arena. A young, comely boy, he’d fetched a high price as a pleasure-slave and spent five years in the harem of Emperor Louis. And Imperial slaves don’t only serve his Majesty. They’re available to the entire royal court, and anyone else who earns the Emperor’s transient and capricious favor.

“I know you’ll shut Bicarat down,” Porthos says encouragingly. Aramis gives Porthos a half-distracted nod, and turns to count the arrows in his quiver one more time. Over his bowed head, Athos and Porthos share a look.

It’s been decades since Aramis had first come to Rome, but the scars aren’t as deeply buried as time would seem to indicate. And being back in the arena will have stirred up old memories for all of them. Aramis touches his arrows as if he still remembers the feel of the first quiver under his fingers. He’d been thrown to the lions after breaking the cardinal rule of pleasure slavery: raising his hand to one of his masters. One day, after an all-night orgy had left Aramis bleeding and feverish, a member of the Emperor’s council had ordered him removed from the physician’s and taken straight to her bedchambers. He’d always been her favorite. Dizzy with fever and blood loss, Aramis had fought her, and been sentenced to death by mauling as a result.

As is the custom with Imperial death sentences, Aramis had been sent to the gladiatorial stable of the powerful Senator Richelieu, the Emperor’s right-hand man, to await his sentence. Frankly, no one had expected Aramis to survive until the next Games. He’d arrived near death, wounds infected and fever sky-high. But Aramis has always been a fighter, and the Captain of their stables, Treville, isn’t a man to give up.

Aramis had not only survived the fever and infection. He’d shown why the nomads of Espania had been so hard for the Romans to conquer in the first place. Allowed only a bow and arrow in the arena – enough to pacify the consciences of the rich and powerful, not enough to truly defend himself – Aramis had struck all three lions with three well-placed shots. He’d then somehow managed to evade the wounded beasts long enough for blood loss and the heat of the noonday sun to finish the work his arrows had begun.

Then the Emperor’s notorious mood swings had come to Aramis’ rescue. Far from being furious that a prisoner had escaped justice, Louis had been amused and impressed by the defiant pleasure-slave who wouldn’t lay down and die. Appealed to for a decision by the arena-master, Louis had clapped his hands and spared Aramis’ life.

“Anyone who can fight like that is wasted in the harem!” he’d proclaimed. “If the slave wishes to fight so much, let him fight! Let the arena be his bed!”

Senator Richelieu, sitting at the Emperor’s right hand and never one to miss an opportunity, had promptly bought Aramis and had him sent to his stables. Under Captain Treville’s training Aramis had blossomed into a deadly fighter. As a team, the three of them had been unbeatable. And under Porthos’ gentle touch Aramis had learned that some lovers were not to be feared.

“Nervous?” Treville asks now, sensing the mood of his gladiators effortlessly. Outside, the noise of the crowd has ebbed. The match before theirs must be between rounds. The team events are three-round events, each round favoring a different weapon.

“A little,” Aramis admits.

“Relax,” Porthos says. “Doesn’t the Senator always say, _‘Those who have faith will be rewarded’_?”

The other three laugh a little. Richelieu is known for his moralistic speeches, delivered on the floor of the Senate and reproduced widely on every street corner. Several of his more commonly repeated refrains have become proverbs in a certain kind of upwardly ambitious household. As slaves in the Senator’s stables, they’d all been exposed to his speeches more often than would be usual for gladiators.

“He also says _‘They are helped who help themselves,’_ ” Treville says. “So: are your blades sharp? Does your armor chafe? Do you need water?”

“Yes, no, and no,” Porthos says.

Athos contents himself with nodding support for Porthos’ answer. He’s already shown a regrettable tendency to put his foot his mouth this morning. Silence is probably the best course. Especially since talk of the Senator begins to drift close to the real reason Athos, Aramis and Porthos have chosen to lay aside their retirement for one more match.

When the _Inseparables_ had come back to the stables and asked Treville to sponsor them for the Emperor’s Birthday Games, the Captain had naturally wanted to know what motivated them to do it.

“Do you need help?” he’d asked. “Is it money? There are other ways to get money, less risky ways.”

It _is_ money. But not for themselves. True, their professions as free men are hardly going to make them rich. Athos works as a blacksmith; Porthos and Aramis own a small market stall. But they’re not in debt. Nor are they likely to be so. It’s not for themselves that they’re fighting today.

“We need the money to help a friend,” Aramis had explained. It’s the truth, and Treville had accepted it as such.

What Aramis hadn’t said is that the friend they intend to help is the Captain himself.

The head of the Richelieu stables enjoys a tremendous reputation. Captain Treville is widely credited with the stables’ success, which brings the Senator – and his powerful political allies – fame and fortune in equal measure. Treville cares about the gladiators. He trains them exhaustively, makes sure their food is nourishing and their wounds are treated. They reward him by each fighting as hard as any other two men. And Richelieu reaps the benefits with great financial windfalls.

The Senator should therefore reward the Captain with a large salary and many benefits. Most men in Treville’s position would be lavishly compensated. Despite the honorific _Captain_ , stable leaders hold no military rank and aren’t bound to a contract with the armed forces. Therefore, most men in Treville’s position would be able to go elsewhere if they were not properly appreciated by their current employer. Someone with Treville’s skills and fame as a Captain would be in high demand on the open market. Every powerful Senator and patrician in Rome who has money invested in a gladiatorial stable would compete for Treville’s services – _if_ he were free to offer them.

He isn’t. And the law says the Senator owes Treville nothing. Nothing except the thin rope around his neck, which marks him as Richelieu’s slave.

Most of the men who fight in the arena or work in the stables are slaves, of course. But Treville isn’t directly owned by the stable. He’s the personal property of the Senator himself. Which means that, unlike the gladiators, the other investors in the stables have no say in Treville’s handling. Treville doesn’t even live at the stables with the others. Every evening he locks the doors and returns to the Senator’s dwelling, not to reappear until the second hour past dawn. How he’s treated in the interim is entirely at the discretion of the Senator himself. And Richelieu is widely known to be a cruel master.

Outside, the crowd roars. The third round must have begun. Treville leans out of the alcove, checking out the situation.

“Looks like _Jupiter’s Fist_ just lost their ranged gladiator,” Treville reports.

“That soon?” Porthos shakes his head. “Bad luck.”

“This won’t last long, then,” Aramis murmurs. The third round is the ranged round. Without their range specialist, _Jupiter’s Fist_ will probably lose fairly quickly.

“Who’s the other team’s specialist?”

“Boisrenard,” Treville answers without bothering to look out again. He has most of the team compositions memorized, anyway, along with their special skills and weaknesses and gladiators. He could name the full lists of most of the major stables, as well as their win and loss records, rivalries, and ownership status.

It’s his job, as captain of the stables. But Treville is more than just a competent captain. Treville is the best.

In most stables, the captain’s position would be held by a former gladiator who had won their freedom in the games. Sometimes a retired mercenary will also take the job. More rarely, a wealthy owner will place their son or nephew in the position to accustom them to a warrior’s life. The Richelieu stables are the only one managed by a slave. Even more unusually, Treville hadn’t been renowned as a gladiator before being given the position. It’s said that when the stables were originally founded the Captain had taken to the arena along with the other gladiators, because the stables’ holdings had been too few in number to make up the required lists. But though he’d reportedly been a competent warrior, Treville had stopped fighting as soon as there had been enough other gladiators in the stables to allow it.

Rumors vary as to why. Some said that the Senator had forbidden it, not wanting to have to replace the Captain’s expertise as a warrior and trainer should he be killed. Others say that Treville had been injured in his last fight; not so badly as to prevent him from acting as Captain, but badly enough to be a disadvantage in the arena. But the general consensus is that, though the injury supposition is correct, the source of it had been the Senator himself. That one night Richelieu had gone too far and hurt Treville beyond his ability to recover.

The Senator’s reputation for cruelty isn’t just words to Athos, Porthos or Aramis. When they’d still been the property of a stables they’d seen the evidence of it firsthand. Hardly a day had gone by when Treville hadn’t sported some new hurt. Never enough to interfere with his duties – if that part of the rumors is true, then the injury that had ended Treville’s career must have been a mistake on the Senator’s part – but obvious and visible to someone who knows how to look. A stiffness in the stance that means sore ribs. A slight limp, as someone who favors a knee bent for too long. A swelling under one eye that speaks silently of a blow to the face. If Treville takes off his shirt under the noonday sun, everyone can see it: bruises in the shape of fingerprints, marks left by a cane, old scars from floggings or worse.

It makes Athos’ blood boil. The Captain is a good man. He works hard to train everyone in the stables, pushing them to do their best and earn money for the Senator and his cronies. And he takes care of the men, too. Treville treats the small injuries that the stables’ wealthy owners won’t buy a doctor’s services for. He makes sure the food is evenly shared out and prevents the strong veterans from bullying the frightened youngsters. He ensures each gladiator receives their fair share of any winnings. Many of the gladiators also rely on Treville to hold and account their savings, having no turn for figures themselves. And if the day ever comes when they have enough to buy their freedom, Treville helps them make the arrangements.

The gong sounds, and outside the crowd roars again. The match is over. This time Aramis doesn’t need to ask the Captain for the result: the announcer’s voice carries well into the waiting area. To no one’s surprise, _Jupiter’s Fist_ is defeated.

“One side!” a voice calls. The _Inseparables_ obediently step aside. Three men in the uniform of Senator Larroque’s stables jog past and onto the sands. A few moments later two of them return, helping a gladiator in the same colors limp in. Boisrenard, probably. He’s got a laceration bleeding sluggishly down his left thigh. It’s not serious, though. Of more concern is the obviously dislocated shoulder.

The announcer’s voice continues, reciting the most impressive plays of the last match and listing individual ranks for the competitors for each of the three rounds the match had gone. Boisrenard’s doubly out of luck. The ranged competitor usually expects to be ranked first or second in the third round. But being eliminated early drops him all the way to sixth. It’ll kill his payout.

Treville cranes his head to watch Boisrenard hobble out and shakes his head. “Unless he’s left-handed, he’ll be out of the arena for a while,” he says. “He’s torn something, I think. Three months at least until he regains enough strength in the arm to draw a bow-string again.”

Aramis winces in sympathy.

“Unfortunate,” Porthos agrees.

Athos contents himself with nodding. The Captain’s concern for Boisrenard – a gladiator for a rival stable – is characteristic of his behavior. Treville spends all of his time helping others but keeps nothing back for himself. As the head of the stables he receives a portion of the gladiators’ winnings, but he spends his money on freedom for the raw youths who appear in the stables after market-day, trembling in fear, only weeks removed from being torn from their homelands and enslaved over their families’ dead bodies. Whenever emancipation papers are the prize in a tournament, Treville is the one to decide how they are used, by right of a tradition so ancient that even Senator Richelieu dare not flout it. But the name Treville writes on those papers is never his own. Instead he frees the grizzled veteran who can no longer support his common-law wife and three children by fighting, or the young man whose recent injury makes him useless as a gladiator, or the Jew who would otherwise be torn apart by lions.

These are compassionate choices all, and Athos honors the Captain for them. What he can’t understand why those who the Captain has freed never turn around and attempt to free the Captain in turn.

In fairness, slaves are expensive. A gladiator with enough popularity and longevity can only afford their freedom because of the huge sums of money the nobility throw into the Games. The nobility may own them by the dozens, but the profits of even a well-to-do merchant won’t reach to the purchase price of an inexpensive slave. Only the famous, overwhelmingly victorious, hugely profitable _Inseparables_ can think of earning enough, after their retirement, to purchase one.

And Treville won’t come cheaply. His age is somewhat against him, but in every other respect he’s a highly valuable commodity. He’s fit, well trained, with the ability to train and lead others. His reputation as a stable captain is widespread. If he were a free man, he’d command a high salary working in any of the stables of Richelieu’s rivals. Consequently, the Emperor’s officials will set the price high. But Aramis has looked at the records of sale, and Porthos calculated the likely price, then increased it half as much again to be safe. The sum that remains is high. But not impossible. Not for the _Inseparables_ , whom all of Rome will come to watch fight one more Game.

The betting revenues on today’s match alone have set new records. These Games being in honor of the Emperor’s birthday, many prominent patrician families – including Senator Richelieu himself – have contributed large sums to the prize purse to show their loyalty and support. And fighting as free men, Athos, Porthos and Aramis will pocket a considerable percentage of that purse. _If_ they win.

It should be enough. And they’re all lucky that it’s an impartial official who sets the price of a slave’s freedom. If it were solely up to Richelieu how much to accept, it’s not likely the price would be within reach of any mortal. The Senator is notoriously jealous of his possessions.

The announcer proclaims the teams for the next match. He’s almost completely drowned out by the roar of the crowd. This is the match everyone’s been waiting for. It’ll be up to Athos, Porthos and Aramis not to disappoint them – or each other.

Echoing through the waiting area, a sonorous _dong_ resonates.

“There’s the gong,” Treville says. “You’re up. Good luck!”

“Thank you,” Porthos says.

“God bless us,” Aramis says. He still holds on to the monotheistic religion of his youth, in spite of all his years in Rome.

“We’ll be fine,” Athos says pragmatically, and leads his team out onto the sands.

* * *

The minute they step out into the sunlight the crowd goes wild. Shouts and cheers rain down on their head from all sides. All three gladiators raise their fists in acknowledgement and honor. When they reach the center of the arena, they stop on their starting positions and lower their fists to their chests, bowing in unison towards the throne. Their opponents are already present. As the team with fewer wins, _Red Guards_ had entered first, and to considerably less acclaim.

Emperor Louis raises a hand to command the crowd to silence. “Fellow Romans!” he bellows. “We are coming now to the highlight of these Games – ”

While the Emperor speaks, Athos studies his opponents. Jussac and Bernajoux he has fought before, but three years bring many changes. Jussac is even more muscular now than he had been. Bernajoux handles his sword with a new level of confidence. The sword round hadn’t been his strong suit before – Jussac is the swordsman on their team – but he seems to have spent the intervening time working on the weapon.

“And I must give special thanks to Senator Richelieu, whose stable is sponsoring the return of my favorite team!”

The Senator himself rises to be thanked, saluting the Emperor. The crowd cheers him.

“Hypocrite,” Aramis mutters. “He hadn’t a thing to do with it.”

“Taking credit for the work of others is the job of a patrician,” Athos murmurs.

“Just imagine the look on his face when we serve him Treville’s papers,” Porthos says in dark satisfaction.

The Senator reseats himself, and the Emperor goes on talking. Athos returns his attention to the team standing halfway across the arena, dressed in Senator Rochefort’s stable’s red-on-black.

Jussac and Bernajoux he’s familiar with. The third man is an unknown quantity. The last time these two teams had fought, Cahusac had been their ranged combatant. But Athos had heard that Cahusac had taken a bad wound through the thigh that had ended his career. He’d been sold to a family from the countryside who’d needed a hunting-master and left Rome a year ago.

Interestingly, the third man – Bicarat – wears no collar. Jussac and Bernajoux both do. They’re the simple cloth collars used by gladiators to indicate slave status without interfering with performance. Athos is intimately familiar with them, having worn one for the ten years he’d been owned by the Richelieu stables. But this new man, it seems, is a volunteer. Athos wonders what exactly the Captain had meant when he’d said Rochefort had _brought back_ the new man from Espania. He’d assumed Treville had meant that Rochefort had captured or bought the man, but apparently not.

Most gladiators are possessions of the stable for whom they fight – their ownership held by a trust, control of which is shared between all of the investors in the enterprise. Others are slaves owned directly by prominent citizens. Some of these are people without enough funds to invest in the stables directly, but who still want to earn money in the gladiatorial games. They’ll place their gladiators in a given stable because of politics, social alliances, or simply the stable’s reputation. Sometimes gladiators or trainers will be directly owned by those who are also investors, who seek to protect and increase their investment in the stables by making sure the stables’ reputation remains good. Between the three categories, the overwhelming majority of gladiators are slaves of one stripe or another.

Still, many freed gladiators return to the arena in lieu of any other trade. Especially for those who had first fought as slaves, there simply aren’t many other professions available to them, even after they buy their freedom. Former mercenaries or impoverished soldiers in a time of peace also fight in the arena. A freed fighter need only pay a small percentage to the stable that sponsors their presence in the Games. Sometimes they may also pay another percentage if they choose to live and eat at the stables along with the slaves. But the lion’s share of the profits from a victory stays with them instead of going to enrich their owner. A good finish at a major game can support a family for months. And these games, in honor of the Emperor’s birthday, are the largest of the calendar year.

But while free gladiators aren’t unheard of, they’re also decidedly in the minority. And yet this match has more freedmen than slaves. Unusual.

The Emperor reaches the end of his speech. Athos’ attention snaps back to the throne in time to bow again with his fellow combatants as the Emperor exhorts them to _“Fight nobly, fight well, and fight hard!”_

Then the gong rings again, and the match begins.


	2. Chapter 2

Athos knocks on Aramis and Porthos’ door two days later. Aramis opens the door on the second knock.

“You’d better step inside,” Aramis says wearily. “It’ll take Porthos a few more minutes.”

“I’m fine!” Porthos calls from within.

“If you’re overdoing it with that arm, you won’t be fine for long!” Aramis shouts back, and goes to help his lover.

Athos allows himself a small smile and sits at the chair at their small table that is, by custom, his. He maintains a separate dwelling, but most evenings find the three of them together, sharing a meal and companionship. _Inseparables_ has never been just a catchy name for a team.

He takes the time to look around the neat little set of rooms, noticing a few new odds and ends scattered about. The customers at Aramis and Porthos’ stall would be surprised to see these rooms. They’re spacious and open, and contain not only a separate bedchamber but also separate rooms for bathing, cooking and eating. In short, their dwelling speaks of a higher standard of living than their customers know or suspect.

Their stall is a simple one that sells produce and cloth goods. There are a dozen such in every market-square. But Porthos’ strength moves the goods without need of a horse or donkey, and Aramis’ charm sells them at twice the rate of their neighbors. In truth, the only thing holding them back from even greater success is prudence. Ex-gladiators and ex-slaves aren’t exactly welcome in the ranks of polite society. No one cares to stop them from scraping together a living, especially if they keep their eyes downcast and their tongues polite. Rise too high, though, and someone would take it upon themselves to cast the upstarts back into the pit.

And there are other reasons for Aramis and Porthos to conceal their income and moderate their appearance in the world. Even in the lower quarters, the two lovers garner dirty looks simply for standing with their arms around each other. Their preferences are tolerated by virtue of their apparent poverty. Prosperity means wealth. Wealth means inheritance. Inheritance law would compel them to separate, to marry and beget heirs. The penalties for defying those laws are strict – and the average man on the street would be more than happy to help enforce them.

It leaves Aramis and Porthos caught between economic success and love. It’s a choice they’ve always made without hesitation. But it leaves them in an awkward position if they make more than they can safely spend.

Athos’ presence helps. A third man, a friend, defuses much of the social stigma of their relationship. It also offers a plausible excuse for the excess of funds. In truth, a good chunk of Aramis and Porthos’ spare earnings end up invested in Athos’ forge anyway. There the money is both safe from prying eyes and growing nicely as Athos’ business spreads.

 _It’s just a shame that what we define as_ spare earnings _are still pennies on the street in comparison with the nobility,_ Athos thinks with a small sigh. It would have been much easier if they could simply have saved up the price of a slave between the three of them. Unfortunately, well off as they might be for their class, such a purchase is a different order of magnitude entirely.

Athos had been noble once, though not by the standards of Rome. He doesn’t think about his past much anymore. He’d never enjoyed the life he’d been expected to lead in his birth country. As the son of one of the Gallic Roman houses, however minor, he could have claimed entry into the patrician classes. His father had had big dreams for his eldest son. Marriage to the penniless but highborn daughter of the Roman governor of Gallia Celtica, a successful military career, possibly even public office.

Instead he’d slipped away one night with only the clothes on his back and the meagre handful of useful skills he’d been able to pick up while evading his father's watchful eye. Even after changing his name to the more Gallic _Athos_ , he’d had to leave Gallia Celtica entirely to find someone who hadn’t known any better than to take him on as an apprentice blacksmith. And when Lars the blacksmith had proved to be a liar and a cheat, and Lars and his apprentice both had been enslaved and sold to pay back Lars’ many debts, it had been far too late for Athos to reassume his old name.

But Athos’ experience of slavery hadn’t been any worse, honestly, than his experience of being a penniless apprentice tradesman. He’d landed in the Richelieu stables shortly after his first master, Gauis Septimus, had brought Athos to Rome and tried unsuccessfully to mold him into a valet. Athos had had no turn for running someone else’s life. The eventual sale had benefited both Richelieu and Senator Gauis. Gauis had gotten someone in return who had been eager to learn the valet’s trade as an alternative to being a farm slave. And Richelieu had gotten the final piece of the most successful gladiatorial team of all time.

Looking back over his life, Athos knows how much worse it could have been. Freemen or not, many apprentice tradespeople lived much harder lives than the slaves in the Richelieu stables. And though Athos had been lucky in his masters, he only needs to look at Aramis’ scars to know what he’d escaped by being purchased by first Gauis and then the stables.

Sometimes Athos wonders if his father is still alive. If his mother wept when she’d found him gone. If his fiancée had even cared. If his little brother Thomas had married her instead, and gone on to do all the great things Athos had been supposed to do.

Athos hopes so. He doesn’t hate any of them; he knows they’d only wanted what they’d thought was best for him, even though their stifling expectations had ultimately driven him away. Sitting in Aramis and Porthos’ pleasant eating room, he’s satisfied with the way his life has turned out. It had taken many more twists and turns than he’d expected as a youth. But his life is finally and entirely under his own control. Athos has a good trade, a solid living, and such companions as the patrician boy from Gallia Celtica could never have known. He’s content.

A muffled groan from the hallway signals Aramis and Porthos’ return. A moment later they appear. Porthos’ arm is out of its sling, Athos is glad to see, though still bound with strips of old cloth.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Porthos is still insisting. “It’s just a scrape.”

“That scrape was pretty deep,” Athos reminds him. Porthos had let himself get too close to Jussac early in the first round and paid for it with a thrust through his forearm.

“It didn’t stop me taking out Bernajoux, did it?” Porthos demands with injured pride. He turns and appeals to Athos. “Did it?”

“No, it did not,” Athos says justly. Porthos had done a very pretty job of his footwork, and laid Bernajoux out flat late in the first round with an axe-blow to the thigh. Bernajoux had had to be carried off the field by his stables’ trainer, and been listed as out of combat for the subsequent two rounds of the match.

“And that gave us the advantage for the whole rest of the fight,” Porthos finishes triumphantly. Substitutions aren’t allowed in the team events any more than they would be in the single events. Senator Rochefort’s team had had to fight the remaining two rounds down a man. It had made the _Inseparables’_ victory easy. And the crowd had adored them all the more for their decisive triumph.

“You just _had_ to be a hero,” Aramis says to Porthos, put out but fond.

“If you’re ready, let’s go,” Athos says, standing and collecting his cloak. “We should catch the Captain early.”

Outside the day is just beginning to really warm up. Athos isn’t expected at the smithy until after the noon meal. Aramis and Porthos would usually be at the stall already, but Porthos’ injury had given them a plausible excuse to hire an additional worker, freeing them until midafternoon. And the prize-purse explains where the money comes from. The other merchants are sympathetic about the injury instead of jealous and suspicious of their sudden wealth. With luck, by the time Porthos’ arm is fully healed, everyone will be so accustomed to the extra woman at the stall that they won’t think to question why she hasn’t been dismissed.

The three _Inseparables_ walk briskly through the cobblestoned streets of Rome. It’s only been two days since the match. Strangers still hail them cheerfully, congratulating them on defeating Rochefort’s team and expressing their wish for another encore match at the Empress’ Birthday Games in three months’ time. Aramis handles most of these inquiries with his trademark charm, accepting compliments and deflecting inquiries in a modest way that seems to enhance the speaker’s own standing for having given them in the first place.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Athos says in admiration after the fifth such interaction.

Aramis shrugs. “It’s all just a matter of giving people what they expect,” he says a little bitterly. Athos doesn’t need Porthos’ significant look to know to drop the subject.

They reach the Richelieu stables the fourth hour after dawn. The morning group exercises are over, and the gladiators are dispersed throughout the practice-yards for individual matchups. Even the team combatants stay in training for the individual events. Most gladiators will fight in both lists in every Game, chasing the extra prize purses and increased visibility. The _Inseparables_ were unusually lucky to have been popular enough – both in the popular imagination and in the betting – to be able to focus exclusively on the team event.

“Captain in his office?” Porthos asks old Laflèche, a former gladiator who’d stayed with the stables as a _gladius_ instructor after he’d won his freedom in the Emperor’s Coronation Games thirteen years ago.

Laflèche nods. “Come to collect your winnings?”

“Of course,” Porthos grins.

“That was a good fight. Gave the young ones something to dream about.” Laflèche jerks his chin at the gladiators – boys, really – practicing their _gladius_ strokes against straw targets. “You should work on your upthrust, though. The way you let Jussac in under your guard – ”

Porthos winces. “Yes, well, good to see you again!” he says hastily, heading off towards the Captain’s office.

“If we ever take the sands again, I’ll make sure he does a week of drills first,” Aramis promises Laflèche.

The grizzled veteran nods. “See you do,” he advises. “The two of you could stand to join him, too.”

“Hey,” Athos protests, stung. “I did fine.”

Laflèche shrugs. “No harm being prepared.”

Aramis laughs and tugs Athos along. “We will,” he says.

“Good.” Laflèche turns back to his charges, already distracted. “YOU!” he bellows. “What do you call that? A block? Any three-Game veteran would have spitted you just then – ”

“He hasn’t changed,” Athos mutters as they catch up to Porthos.

“I don’t think he ever will,” Porthos agrees.

“Come on,” Aramis says. He knocks on the Captain’s door.

“Enter,” the familiar voice calls.

The three of them do. Treville stands up from behind his desk and comes around. “There you are,” he says in relief. “I was expecting you yesterday. When you didn’t come I thought that wound must be worse than I thought. Here, let me see it.”

Porthos holds up the injured limb for inspection. “It’s fine,” he says again, long-suffering.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on it,” Aramis adds.

“Good,” Treville says. He’s unwound the dressing and is inspecting it. “What are you using on it?”

Aramis begins describing various treatments. With the practice of long experience, Athos tunes him out. Porthos is obviously doing the same. The two of them share a rueful look.

“That should do well then,” Treville says, wrapping it back up and letting Porthos go. “All right. Here’s the tally.” Treville produces a sheet of paper with figures on it in careful columns and hands it to Porthos. That’s another piece of Aramis and Porthos’ success: they have no need to pay an accountant to keep their books. Porthos does it all. He has a gift for numbers.

Treville knows it, and Athos and Aramis know it, but everyone else who learns it finds it a surprise. No one expects it of a former slave and gladiator. At least not one of such humble origins. Porthos had grown up as a common street thief in Nubia, the offspring of a disgraced merchant’s daughter and a patrician who hadn’t cared enough to financially support the girl he’d gotten in trouble. Porthos doesn’t owe his education to his father, as some other bastards with noble ancestry do. Nor does he owe it to his mother, who’d cheerfully abandoned her child at age five when her parents had finally offered to take her back. Porthos had simply picked it all up himself. The other thieves had apparently laughed at a boy who’d rather steal a book than an apple, but Porthos’ skill at ciphering had let him pick up odd legal jobs, too. And though he’d eventually been caught three times for stealing and been legally enslaved, he’d been nearly fully grown when he’d been hauled before the judge that third fatal time. Too old for rehabilitation or placement as a house-slave. Instead the judge had offered Porthos a choice: mines, galleys, or the arena. Porthos’ gift of numbers extends to counting odds as well as counting pennies, and he’d calculated – correctly – that the arena offered the shortest path to freedom. He couldn’t have known at the time that his choice would also bring him Aramis. But the odds are ever in Porthos’ favor.

Now Porthos looks up and nods. “The calculations look right, as always, Captain.”

“Glad to hear it,” Treville says, smiling. He reaches into his desk and pulls out a large cloth bag. Athos is familiar with them from years of being a gladiator, and he knows exactly how strong the cloth is, how much weight it can support. This bag creaks as it’s set down. The weave loosens where the coins press against it, and through the gaps sparks of gold shine through.

“Feel free to count it,” Treville invites, as always.

“Thank you, there is no need,” Athos replies. He reaches out and picks up the bag. It’s heavy in his hands. He sets it back down again. Aramis and Porthos each do the same, and they look at each other, grinning.

Treville smiles, too. “Well, now that you have it, mind telling me what you’re going to do with it?” he asks. “Money’s useful, but there’s still some things it doesn’t buy. Do you need a hand? Some of the lads could use strength training anyway. And you still haven’t told me who this friend is. Do I know them?”

The three _Inseparables_ exchange a quick look. Aramis takes a step back and closes the door to Treville’s office, prudently.

“Captain,” Athos begins. Then he corrects himself. “Treville,” he starts again. “Actually, we were hoping to help _you_.”

The Captain blinks. “Me?” he says in surprise. His gaze takes in all three of them.

“That’s right,” Aramis says. Porthos nods.

“That’s – that’s kind of you,” Treville says carefully. “But I don’t need – why, anything.” He touches his collar; the gesture looks automatic, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “All my needs are provided for. And you certainly shouldn’t buy anything for the stables – ”

“I think perhaps you aren’t realizing exactly how much money is in that bag,” Aramis says. “We’re not talking about the stables. We’re talking about you.”

“I looked at the rolls of sale,” Porthos adds. “For older gladiators and war veterans of comparable age and skills. You’re expensive, but with that purse and what we’ve saved – ”

“We’re talking about buying you,” Athos says, coming right out with it. “We’re talking about your freedom.”

“ _What?”_ Treville says blankly.

Aramis breaks out into a wide smile. “It’s true,” he says. “We haven’t asked for an official price yet – ”

“Didn’t want to tip our hand,” Porthos interjects.

“ – but the processing never takes more than a couple of days and – ”

“Wait,” Treville says, holding up a hand. “You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Porthos says.

“Think about what you’re saying,” Treville says carefully. “Surely you’ve better things to spend that money on. Athos could buy out his business partner and own the forge. You two could expand – ”

“We’ve got enough for our needs,” Athos says firmly. “We’d rather help someone else.”

“Then let me advise you to choose another. There are plenty of slaves in the stables that would be better able to start from scratch.”

“You wouldn’t have to start from scratch,” Aramis says eagerly. “Porthos and I could use an assistant. And there’s work at Athos’ forge, too, if you prefer that.”

“Those are jobs for young men,” Treville says desperately. “Some new boys just arrived last week. Why not buy one of them? They could start as an apprentice at the forge and learn a trade – ”

“Captain,” Porthos interrupts. “We want to help _you_.”

Treville’s eyes dart between them. Unease curls in Athos’ gut. This isn’t going at all the way he’d expected. A certain amount of protesting they’d been prepared for, a certain amount of the Captain’s natural modesty and self-sacrifice. But they’re going well beyond that now. Treville looks almost like a cornered animal, searching for an escape.

“What’s really going on?” Athos asks abruptly. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Some reason you don’t want us to free you?”

Aramis catches on to this rapidly. “Is it the Senator?” he demands, face darkening. “Does he have something on you?”

“No, it’s not like that – ”

“A family member?” Porthos breaks in. It’s not uncommon for families to be sold into slavery together. Or – God, none of them had ever even considered it, but what if Treville has a wife? A child? Any child of Treville’s would be Richelieu’s property too –

“No,” Treville protests, cutting off Athos’ line of thinking. “It’s just me.”

“Then what is it?” Aramis presses.

“Whatever it is, we’ll help,” Athos says.

“I don’t need your help,” Treville says roughly. “Choose someone else. Or use the money for another purpose. I don’t care. But don’t speak of this any further. I don’t want to hear it, do you understand?”

“Captain,” Porthos says in bewilderment. “Are you saying you don’t _want_ your freedom?”

Treville’s face blanks. He presses his palms flat against the table. Despite this, Athos can still see his hands shaking.

“I’m saying you should leave,” Treville says. He’s not making eye contact with anyone; his gaze goes right through the three _Inseparables_ , fixed on something distant only Treville can see. “I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

“But,” Aramis falters. “Captain – ”

“I said leave.”

“Captain – ” Porthos tries.

“No.”

Athos reaches out. “Treville.”

Treville recoils. “Get out,” he hisses, suddenly furious.

Athos backs away. He doesn’t know what’s going on here, but he knows the sight of a dangerous man ready to attack. Beside Athos, Porthos grabs Aramis by the shoulder and tugs him back, too, when Aramis would have continued to press forward.

“We’re leaving,” Athos says as calmly as he can.

The Captain doesn’t respond. He just watches them, flat and cold, as they retreat.

* * *

“What in the name of all the gods was that?” Porthos bursts out, as soon as they’re safely outside the stables, standing in the closest square and blinking under the harsh sun.

Aramis shakes his head. He walks straight over to the closest fountain and sinks down on its rim, ignoring the water that splashes on him.

“Something is wrong,” Athos says, understating the case significantly.

“Treville told us to get out,” Porthos says blankly. “He _snapped_ at us. We offered him his freedom and – ”

“Something is wrong,” Athos repeats. “Our challenge now is to figure out what.”

Aramis looks up from his contemplation of the fountain’s stone. Porthos stops mid-word.

“Unless either of you were planning to give up,” Athos adds as an aside.

“Never,” Porthos says swiftly.

“I wouldn’t leave Treville in the Senator’s hands if I could prevent it. Not for all the gold in Rome,” Aramis says vehemently, the first time he’s spoken since pleading with the Captain.

“But what do you have in mind?” Porthos asks.

“The Captain refuses to let us help him,” Athos says. “There must be a reason. We must discover what it is.”

“But what?” Porthos says. “He denies that it’s the Senator – ”

“True. But he may have good reason to lie.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past Richelieu,” Aramis says.

“At any rate we should rule the Senator out before we proceed to other, less likely causes,” Athos says.

“How?”

Athos shrugs. “We go to the source,” he says. “Nothing happens at the stables without everyone learning about it shortly after. Therefore, any hold the Senator has on Treville must be consolidated when Treville is not at the stables.”

“He goes back to the Senator’s dwelling every evening,” Porthos says.

“And doesn’t return till after dawn,” Aramis says.

“So it is there that we must seek our answers,” Athos says. “We’ll go to the Senator’s dwelling this evening and watch his behavior.”

“The Senator’s not going to let us in the front door,” Porthos objects.

“A certain amount of sneaking may be involved,” Athos concedes.

“I don’t know of any good way to sneak into a patrician’s dwelling when you’re as famous as we are,” Porthos says. “If we were nobodies it would be easier – but everyone will recognize our faces, especially after the match we just fought. We’d never be able to pass as members of the household.”

Athos sighs. He’d been hoping Porthos’ past experience as a thief would be of help breaking into the Senator’s house, but apparently not.

“Wait,” Aramis says slowly. “The Senator lives in the city. Remember? ‘ _A patrician should not hold themselves apart from the people’_.”

“I wouldn’t have suggested we go haring off to the countryside.”

Aramis shakes his head. “No, I mean, his dwelling’s not isolated at all. There’s no gardens or courtyard or anything setting it apart from the streets. And isn’t there a service alley that runs right past the compound?”

Porthos makes a considering face. “Are you suggesting we spy on the Senator from an alley?”

Aramis shrugs. “It’s a little unsavory, but considering the cause…”

“There’s no guarantee we’ll see anything interesting,” Athos points out. “For all we know the alley faces the kitchens and the servants’ quarters.”

“The servants’ quarters _could_ be interesting,” Porthos says. “We don’t know where Treville sleeps.”

“I think it’s a safe bet that, whatever’s going on, it occurs while the Captain is awake,” Athos disagrees. “Which means we need to concern ourselves with where the Senator spends his time.”

“Well, the Senator’s dwelling is on a major street,” Aramis says. “The rear of the building will be the quietest. If I were the Senator I’d put my offices and chambers there.”

“It’s worth a try, anyway,” Athos decides. “There’s very little risk to it. If we don’t learn what we need, we’ll simply try another approach.”

“Then we’re agreed?”

“Yes,” Porthos says.

“All right,” Athos says. “We’ll meet back here at sunset, and follow Treville from here – just to make sure he really _does_ go back to the Senator’s dwellings.”

“Agreed,” Aramis says.

“Come on then,” Porthos says. “We’ve got work to do before then.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for how long it took to get this part out. I was trying to get the chapters up weekly, but life decided otherwise. Oh well. It's done now!

Athos goes back to the forge and works his usual shift. Aramis and Porthos do the same for their little stall. They meet by prearrangement at the fountain in the central square as the sun dips below the buildings.

The gladiators’ work period ends at sunset, at which point they are to return to their stables’ barracks. Food is provided and the doors are locked for the night by the free overseers. Some of the gladiators and trainers are not owned directly by their stable; those men are escorted home by their masters’ guards, or, in some cases, are trusted to return home independently. Treville is in the latter category.

Right on schedule, Treville appears from the eastern side of the square and joins the crowd passing through. The _Inseparables_ idle semi-industriously until he’s past and gone. Then they set out behind him.

They make their way towards the Senator’s house. It’s on a prominent thoroughfare, which makes it easy for Athos, Porthos and Aramis to walk by. The crowded street means it’s easy to progress slowly. A few people recognize them from the arena. But in the general noise anything they shout is indistinguishable from the background.

From the street, Athos can see that the gate to the compound is still open. They’re in luck. Treville must have just reached the Senator’s dwelling. He’s just now in the act of entering the courtyard, turning aside from the short well-landscaped path to make for a small door visible to one side. A servants’ entrance.

“This way,” Aramis says, leading Athos and Porthos past the courtyard to the next intersection. Here they turn onto a much less crowded thoroughfare. A few steps later, at Aramis’ gesture, they duck past a line of hanging laundry and find themselves in an alley.

“Which one of these is the Senator’s?” Porthos asks, staring down a row of brick-backed buildings.

Aramis gives Porthos a pitying look. “All of them.”

“But the courtyard only covers half the street in the front!” Porthos protests.

“The other buildings in the block used to be separate dwellings,” Athos agrees. “The Senator bought them when he decided to take up residence in the city and had the interior walls demolished to form his compound.”

“Apparently it’s something of a maze inside,” Aramis says. “I’ve no idea what’s located where, so we’ll just have to peek in the windows until we find what we’re looking for.”

“Which is?” Porthos asks.

Aramis shrugs. “Servants’ quarters, or the Senator’s study, or maybe a dining hall. Anywhere the Senator and the Captain might find themselves together.”

“Somewhere semi-private,” Athos adds. “The Senator prefers to keep his dirty laundry hidden.”

“Right,” Porthos says grimly, moving towards the closest window.

They quickly rule out the first several options, which mainly turn out to be storerooms of one kind or another. One is a laundry – an unlikely place for a gladiatorial Captain to spend his time – while another is a hallway. A few guest bedrooms, pristine and untouched, round out the south wing of the compound.

This brings them to the center of the alley, and the rooms start to get more interesting.

“Servants’ quarters,” Porthos reports in a whisper, peering in one window.

“Maybe later,” Athos says. “The Captain probably sleeps there, but we need to find where he spends his time awake.”

“Dining room,” Aramis says from a little farther down the alley.

“Too early for supper,” Porthos sighs.

Athos peers into another window. The view is somewhat masked by gauzy curtains, but a moment of squinting reveals a lavishly appointed bedchamber. They’ve seen a few of these already, but those were neatly made up and empty of personal belongings, obviously guest quarters. These appear lived-in. And thanks to the large portrait hanging over the enormous bed, there’s little doubt as to whom these rooms belong.

Athos shakes his head in bemusement at the luxury. He’s about to move on when the door handle rotates downwards. Instinctively he ducks. Then he remembers the gauzy curtains and slowly rises again. If he can keep an eye on the Senator, they can track his movements throughout the compound – assuming he remains within view of an alley-facing window – and be ready when Richelieu encounters Treville.

Except that when the door finishes opening, it’s not the Senator who steps into the room. It’s Treville himself.

“Over here,” Athos hisses once he gets over his shock, beckoning this two companions over. They crowd in.

“Damn,” Porthos whistles. “Nice digs.”

“Never mind the room,” Athos says. “What’s the Captain doing here?”

“You don’t suppose…” Aramis starts, horrified.

“Maybe he was sent to fetch something,” Porthos suggests, laying a comforting hand on his lover's shoulder.

Athos frowns. There should be house-servants for that sort of thing. But he holds his tongue. He doesn’t want to upset Aramis unnecessarily, and Treville’s presence in Richelieu’s bedchamber is suspect enough without dragging up Aramis’ past.

Especially when Treville begins to disrobe.

“Oh my God,” Aramis blurts.

Porthos abandons the hand-on-shoulder approach in favor of wrapping both arms around Aramis.

“He may just be changing,” Athos says doubtfully.

“Bathing,” Porthos suggests. “After a long day at the stables.”

“In the Senator’s private quarters?” Aramis demands incredulously.

Ignorant of the _Inseparables’_ debate, Treville goes right on disrobing. He’s standing just inside the door on a small inset square of tiles, a step beneath the soft-looking rugs that litter the main floor, just wide enough for two or three men to stand. Each soiled garment is carefully placed in a wicker basket positioned nearby, apparently for that purpose. Only once Treville’s naked does he proceed farther into the room. The first thing he does is push aside a second, inner door and go through it.

A few shuffling steps to the right improve Athos’ angle of view enough to make the second room visible. This accomplished, this second space is revealed to be a bathing chamber. Sunk into the floor waits the most palatial tub Athos has ever seen. Easily large enough for five men, it has gentle, sloping sides that can’t help but encourage relaxation. The tub is full of water which steams gently but visibly in the open air. Herbs float atop the surface. Athos can’t smell them, but by eye alone he picks out lavender and jasmine.

“Bathing,” Aramis says flatly. “I don’t think that bath’s intended for a slave.”

“The Senator should be arriving home shortly,” Athos says. “It must be for him.”

It makes a certain amount of sense. Usually the job of bathing the Senator would belong to a higher servant, but assigning Treville this chore might be a way of flaunting the hold Richelieu apparently has over him. The Senator could easily be that petty in his personal life.

“Looks inviting,” Porthos says in a poor attempt at humor.

“I’m sure the Senator enjoys it,” Aramis bites out, looking pale.

“I hope you’ll understand if I have to avert my delicate eyes after a bit,” Athos murmurs. “I’ve no general objection to the male body, but Richelieu naked is rather more than I’m up for.”

“Hang on,” Porthos says suddenly. “This isn’t right. Why’s the tub full?”

Athos slants Porthos a look. “Because the Senator intends to bathe?” he suggests.

Porthos shakes his head. “Haven’t either of you heard that speech? _‘Bathing before bed is evil and weak-minded. The truly righteous bathe at dawn to purify themselves for the work ahead.’_ ” Porthos even manages to do a creditable imitation of the Senator’s drawling tones.

Aramis blinks. “You know, now that you mention it, I _have_ heard that speech.”

Athos frowns. “Then why the bath?”

Porthos looks back through the window. His jaw drops. “Uh…”

Athos peeks, too. His jaw remains where it ought to be, but only through formidable strength of will. The bath isn’t empty anymore. Treville is reclining in it. He’s placed a few folded towels by one lip of the tub, and his head is leaned back, eyes closed. He looks completely relaxed.

“Oh shit,” Aramis mutters. “He must be expecting the Senator to be getting back late tonight. Talk about risky!”

A thought occurs to Athos suddenly. “ _Is_ it risky?”

Aramis looks at him like he’s crazy. “If the Senator comes back and finds the Captain here, he won’t stop at just giving Treville a limp and some bruises!”

“Then who _is_ expected to bathe here?” Athos asks. “The tub was full.”

Aramis and Porthos blink at him. “You don’t suppose – ” Porthos starts.

He’s interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. This time all three of them duck back instinctively. Then they pause, realizing that now no one can see what’s going on. Crouching, they hold a silent, furious debate using only their facial expressions and some eloquent hand gestures. At the end of it Athos rises – slowly – and lifts his eyes above the window-sill.

Richelieu has entered his bedchambers. He, too, pauses in the tiled section to shed his outer robes, though he remains in his linen shift underneath. Thus attired, he moves towards the second door.

Athos freezes for a moment, then realizes that the second door is open. Has been open the entire time. Richelieu would have been able to see Treville in his bath as soon as he’d entered. If he were outraged, if Treville were about to be severely punished, the bellowing would have started already.

Athos waves to the other two to rejoin him, making a sign to them at the same time for silence. Their heads crowd in next to his, staying just low enough to see.

“Is the budget done?” Treville’s voice breaks the silence, carrying quietly but clearly to the three watching at the window.

“Yes, finally,” Richelieu replies. He turns away out of sight to fetch something and his next few words are only mumbles. When he turns back they hear “ – should be taken care of. You?”

Treville stretches under the water. “Nothing too bad,” he mutters, sounding sleepy.

Richelieu is carrying a small basket as he comes over to where Treville is reclining. He places another few towels on the ground just behind Treville’s head. Next to them he sets the basket. And then, to the astonishment of all three former Gladiators, the feared Senator Richelieu kneels down and begins to wash his slave’s hair.

They all retreat a few steps down the alley before their astonishment can give them away. “What in the gods’ names?” Porthos bursts out with as soon as he judges it safe to do so.

“What is going on here?” Aramis demands, wild-eyed.

“Something very different than what we were led to believe,” Athos says calmly. “I’m going to go back to looking. Can the two of you hold your tongues, or must you stay here?”

Aramis and Porthos exchange a silent look. Together, they nod.

When the three resume their viewing pose, the scene has changed somewhat. Treville is emerging from the water, cleaned. Richelieu is actually wrapping him in a towel. Not a slave’s towel, small and coarse. Not even the usual piece of cloth standard for servants, adequate but none too fine. This is a large swath of fabric, rich, with the Senator’s own crest embroidered on it.

And Treville doesn’t seem surprised or overcome by this piece of consideration. He laughs at the Senator, murmuring something quick and low that none of them can catch. He tilts his head up towards the Senator, eyes dancing. And the Senator leans down and takes him in a passionate kiss.

Aramis makes a choked sound and drops back below the window. Porthos looks after him worriedly, but keeps his place.

Athos continues to watch. He knows what Aramis is afraid of, what has him huddled down at the base of the window shaking, but he seriously doubts he’s about to watch Treville be raped. The bath and the towel are marks of great favor, it’s true. But nothing about Richelieu’s attitude suggests that he’s pampering a favored bed-slave. And nothing about Treville’s attitude suggests that he views what he’s being given as the recompense due one who pays in the most intimate of ways.

Indeed, after a moment the two break apart. Or, more accurately, Treville places a hand on Richelieu’s chest and gently pushes him back.

“Supper first, remember?” Treville says. There’s a playful chiding in his tone completely at odds with any of the roles Athos has tried so far to cast the Captain in. There’s none of the fearful subservience of the beaten-down slave speaking to the cruel master. Nor, as Athos had always thought more likely, does Treville speak with the silent, enduring bravery of the unbroken slave who does his duty even in the face of mistreatment. It’s not said in the coquettish tones of the bed-slave who tries simultaneously to flatter and divert the domineering master. Nor even in the steady tones of the respected slave whose worth is known to a responsible owner.

If anything, Athos thinks, it’s spoken in the fond, indulgent tones of the loving wife. And that’s when the suspicion begins to take root in his mind.

“All right,” Richelieu sighs back. “I suppose my dues to society aren’t quite paid yet for today.”

“Soon,” Treville soothes. He turns towards the wardrobe – actually _turns his back_ on his owner. And the Senator doesn’t raise a hand against his rebellious slave. The caricature of the man Athos had thought he had known as _Senator Richelieu_ would have had Treville dragged from the room and flogged in the public square until his bones broke. The man he’s seeing now merely smiles fondly at the retreating back and follows it, one hand reaching to ghost along the nape of Treville’s neck, making the old gladiator shiver in what Athos is pretty sure is pleasure.

Treville _does_ dress the Senator – the natural order of things isn’t so far disarranged as that – and by the time he’s done, the silence and Porthos’ eloquent gestures have convinced Aramis to rejoin the others at the window. Aramis apologizes for his departure with a short look at Athos, to which Athos replies with an even shorter gesture: _it’s all right._

With the Senator dressed, Treville goes back to the wardrobe and retrieves a small pile of clothes for himself. Even folded they’re obviously of good quality, and appear soft and warm. Another mark of favor. They’re stacking up rather quickly. Whatever else is going on here, it’s obvious that Treville’s life is not one of bread, water and beatings, the way so many of the gladiators have always assumed.

Treville goes to dress quickly, but is stopped by Richelieu’s hands on him.

Aramis stiffens again. But a second look makes it clear that Richelieu’s touch isn’t sexual. He’s tracing the scattered marks on Treville’s back, the sort left by a patrician’s cane. The gladiators had always supposed that Richelieu himself left those marks on Treville, as punishment or simple encouragement to harder work.

“What happened?” Richelieu asks, tone gentle.

“Centurion Tavii wished to inspect the gladiatorial stock before placing his bet,” Treville says quietly. “He didn’t think I should be present while he did so.”

Richelieu reaches to the top of the wardrobe and pulls down an earthenware jar. He unscrews it and dips his fingers inside. They come out covered with a colorless jelly of some kind. First rubbing it between his fingers to warm it, the Senator then begins to massage it into the injured area. Treville tips his head back and sighs.

Finished, Richelieu takes Treville’s shoulders and turns him around. His fingers dip to touch the edge of a rather impressive bruise on Treville’s ribcage. The sort of bruise that the gladiators had always thought came from the Senator, in fact.

“And this?”

Treville shrugs stiffly. “The ticket-taker objected to me recounting our share of the revenues from the Emperor’s Birthday Games.”

Richelieu repeats the application of the salve. When he’s done his fingers drift sideways. Wrapped around Treville’s left bicep are the deep imprints of a hand. Fingers and thumb are equally visible pressed into his skin. “Here?”

“One of the King’s guards wanted to have a little fun with one of the new boys. He didn’t like it when I objected.” Treville touches his belly briefly, and winces, though there’s no damage visible. “One of his friends held me, and then he hit me twice, here.”

Richelieu’s face tightens, but he nods. He reaches back into the jar and offers the same treatment to both bicep and stomach. When he finishes, he leaves his hand in place for a moment.

“You must tell me if this gets worse,” the Senator says. “You could be bleeding.”

“I’m all right,” Treville says. He must see something in Richelieu’s face, turned away from the three watching at the window, because he touches the Senator’s arm gently. “I’ve had internal bleeding before, remember? I know what it feels like. I’m fine.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Richelieu demands, sounding angry for the first time. “That you’ve been that badly injured before – that someone dared to hurt you like that, and I couldn’t stop it, and it might happen again and I still won’t be able to stop it?”

Treville reaches out and, shockingly, gathers the Senator in an embrace. Treville is naked but for his collar and his wounds, a slave, the property of the Senator, whom any man can strike without fear of reprisal. Richelieu is richly garbed, prominent and powerful, wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. But the master is worrying about the slave, and the slave is comforting the master, and all the usual rules are turned inside out.

“I’m strong,” Treville murmurs, words just faintly intelligible. “I can take a few blows, you know I can. It’s just skin deep. Most of the citizenry know how you feel about your property being damaged. The Guard today was just young and stupid. His companion let me go as soon as he saw what his friend was doing, and pulled his friend off of me before I could be seriously hurt.”

The Senator’s reply is too muffled to be heard.

“When they left the older Guard was already filling the youngster’s head with tales of your bloody revenge,” Treville adds. He actually sounds amused. “Your legend has grown again. The next Guard who comes to the stables is going to be calling _me_ sir.”

Richelieu sighs and pulls back a little. His hands are on Treville’s shoulders, and his long fingers trace the marks of the Centurion’s cane, almost compulsively.

“There will always be things like this,” the Senator says. “If they don’t do permanent harm, I have no grounds for complaint.”

Treville reaches up and grasps Richelieu’s wrists gently, stilling his fingers. “It’s the price I pay to be with you,” he says simply. “And I pay it freely. You know that. Armand, you know that I could be free any time I wished. I still have the papers in a drawer. Signed and sealed. The moment I wrote my name in them I would be free.”

“Maybe you should,” Richelieu says, sounding choked.

“I choose not to,” Treville says. “I choose to be here. And I would choose to bear it all ten times over in order to remain here.”

Treville raises himself on his toes to kiss the Senator. The Senator makes a low, pained noise, kissing back, clasping Treville to him as if it hurts him to be apart.

Athos has seen enough. He drops back below the window, and gestures for Aramis and Porthos to follow him.

They retreat from the alley as silently as they came. Aramis is pale, and Porthos appears to be caught in the grip of some great emotion. None of them say a word until they’re safely back in Porthos and Aramis’ abode.

“So that’s it,” Athos says finally, when the door is locked and they’re all seated around the small table. “That’s why the Captain won’t accept his freedom.”

“He wants to stay with the Senator,” Porthos says, sounding bewildered.

Aramis reaches over and puts his hand on top of Porthos’. “He _loves_ the Senator,” he says. Aramis sounds like he doesn’t know what emotion to express first: shock, horror, fear. “And the Senator – ”

“Loves him,” Athos finishes.

“But someone in the Senator’s position can’t have a free male lover,” Porthos says. He’s looking at Aramis. Thinking of the opportunities they’ve given up, the chances for greater prosperity they’ve turned down, in order to protect their ability to be together. No one cares too much if a couple of freed gladiators, barely scraping by, bed each other in their spare time. Former slaves living in quasi-poverty are no one’s moral idols. Respectable merchants are. Aramis and Porthos could be firmly entrenched in the middle class. But to do so they’d have to give each other up. They’ve refused to do that.

Patricians are held to an even higher standard of behavior. Senator Richelieu is the second most powerful man in the kingdom. His conduct must therefore be beyond reproach.

“No one cares what gender of slave one uses for release,” Athos says aloud. “A slave isn’t a human being. They don’t count.”

 _Treville_ doesn’t count. As long as Treville remains a slave, Richelieu may bed him freely, and society doesn’t say a word. And with Richelieu’s reputation, who would guess that he aches when his slave is hurt? Who would guess that Richelieu loves Treville?

“So the Captain stays there,” Aramis whispers. “Voluntarily. Allowing himself to be struck, and spat upon, and beaten – ”

“In order to remain with the one he loves.” Porthos gazes at Aramis. “I would do the same, if that was what it took to be with you.”

“No! I wouldn’t let you!” Aramis shoots to his feet, turning to pace in agitation through the small room. “Athos, you say the Senator loves Treville, but you’re wrong. If he really loved Treville he wouldn’t let him do this! He wouldn’t _make_ him do this! He’s still Treville’s owner, have you forgotten that? Richelieu could free Treville at any time. He refuses to do so – it’s his fault! He’s making Treville do this!”

“Aramis, be reasonable,” Athos snaps. “If Richelieu freed Treville without his consent, how would it be any better?”

“With some space, some distance – ”

Athos shakes his head. “How many opportunities has the Captain turned down? The Emperor’s given him a blank writ of emancipation three times. Each time Treville’s given the preference to another. Treville’s bought the freedom of a dozen other slaves with his portion of the stable’s winnings. He could have bought himself, but he hasn’t. This whole thing started because _we_ tried to buy his freedom and he refused us!”

“Treville’s exactly where he wants to be,” Porthos says. He reaches out towards Aramis.

“And it’s his choice to make,” Athos adds. “Unless you want to exchange one master for another, and make him freedom’s slave instead of Richelieu’s.”

Aramis stares at them both, shocked and betrayed. “Treville’s not thinking clearly,” he insists. “It’s easy to think that someone cares for you when they’re rutting between your legs. But it’s all an illusion. Sooner or later you end up among the lions. When your beauty fades, when your youth is gone – ”

“The Captain’s older than any of us,” Porthos says. “Old enough to be our fathers.”

“And I don’t think anyone could fairly call him beautiful,” Athos adds. “Yet the Senator seems to care about him regardless.”

“The Senator’s owned Treville thirty years now,” Porthos says. “If he were going to grow tired of Treville and throw him to the lions, I think he would have done it by now.”

“Thirty _years_?” Aramis’ surprise is obvious.

Athos, too, is startled. Outside of institutions like the gladiatorial stables, a slave remaining with a single master for so long is unusual. True, some of the old noble houses have slave lines that they have maintained over generations, the children of slaves taking over their parents’ roles, the parents being allowed to live into old age on the family’s charity. But Richelieu had been born in the middle class. His position had been bestowed on him by the King for his military successes. Just about thirty years ago, now, in fact, if Athos’ memory serves him. He frowns. Thirty years… _no, it can’t be…_

“You didn’t know?” Porthos is asking.

Aramis shakes his head. “How did _you_ know?”

Athos looks up, still chasing the memory. “Yes, how did you know?”

“Treville said as much to me once,” Porthos answers. “I said something about my homeland, as it had been when I was a child. Treville said he remembered seeing it that way. I was surprised, because I thought he’d been born a slave, and I’d never heard of the Senator visiting Nubia. But Treville said no, he’d been a paid soldier in his youth, and thirty years ago he’d briefly been in Nubia. He said it was right before he had been enslaved and the Senator had come to own him.”

“A paid soldier?” Athos says. “You’re sure? A mercenary?”

“That’s what he said.” Porthos blinks. “Why, what’s wrong? Surely you don’t judge him for that?”

“No. No, it’s just – it must have been he!”

“He who?”

“You don’t know this story?” Athos looks between his two companions. “The campaign that made Richelieu a Senator?”

“The victory in Macedonia, wasn’t it?” Porthos frowns. “What has that to do with Treville?”

“Thirty years ago Richelieu – he wasn’t a Senator then – came back from Macedonia with the greatest military coup of the decade,” Athos recounts. “The Emperor made Richelieu a Senator, included him in the Imperial councils, and gave him enormous estates in the new principalities, so that he became rich. And then the Emperor offered Richelieu a boon of anything the Senator would name. Anything at all, to be his.”

“I didn’t know this story,” Aramis says.

“I did,” Porthos says. “But what has that to do with anything? The Senator turned the boon into political power and built up his household shortly thereafter. That’s probably when he bought Treville.”

Athos shakes his head. “No. Listen to the rest. On the campaign, the Senator had had several legions of mercenaries as well as regular army troops. One legion had been supposed to guard Richelieu’s flank during a key battle. But they were lured into an ambush and failed to appear where they were supposed to. Many soldiers died, and Richelieu himself was gravely injured. The legion of mercenaries was almost wiped out. All of their officers were killed. Since the officers could not be made to pay, the Emperor decreed that the survivors would all be enslaved, and sent to the mines.”

Aramis shudders. The mines are legendary: no one sent there survives more than three years. To be sent to the mines is a common fate of underperforming gladiators.

“There were only half-a-dozen survivors,” Athos goes on. “Most of them were veterans. But one of them was a youth on his first major campaign. Richelieu told the Emperor that, for his boon, he wanted the youth to be given to him as his personal slave. And he wanted the Emperor’s guarantee that the slave would never be taken from him. Not as payment for a debt, or in judgment from the courts, or for tribute to the temple. That Richelieu would have complete and eternal ownership of the youth.”

“And the Emperor granted that?” Aramis cries, shocked. “Richelieu obviously intended to take revenge on this soldier. Torture him to death, probably!”

Athos shrugs. “Richelieu could have demanded half the royal treasury, or the gavel of the Senate, or a relative of the Emperor to wife,” he says. “Comparatively speaking Louis got off easy.”

“Richelieu _has_ all of those things,” Aramis protests.

“Richelieu has them now,” Athos says. “He didn’t then. Then he was just a brand new Senator, whose only experience was in far-flung military campaigns.”

“But what does this have to do with – ”

“I think the slave was Treville,” Athos says.

Aramis’ eyes widen.

Porthos, though, nods slowly. “I think you’re right,” he says. “Treville doesn’t talk much about his past, but what he’s said adds up.”

“And Richelieu’s early household was small. He boasts of it when he challenges the greed of the other senators – haven’t you heard it?”

“ _‘In my household for many years I had only one slave and three servants,_ ’” Porthos quotes. “ _‘How many among you could do the same?_ ’ Richelieu casts it up to them every year when the Senate sits to fight out the budget.”

“So if the Captain’s indeed been in Richelieu’s ownership for thirty years – ” Aramis says faintly.

Porthos shakes his head. “It took Richelieu ten years after that campaign to gain the foundations of the power and prestige that make him the man he is today. I thought that was _after_ spending the Emperor’s favor. If not – how many of those ten years could he have leapt over?”

“To instead spend the favor on Treville – if I’m right – ” Athos shakes his head.

“Still,” Aramis says. “Thirty years – ”

Athos raises a hand. “Before you say that thirty years is a long time, and that passion may cool, think back again on what you saw tonight.”

Aramis bows his head. Porthos goes over and takes him in his arms.

“I know what you’re afraid of,” Porthos murmurs to him. “I know you want to help the Captain. But freedom isn’t the kind of help he wants.”

“It’s not what I lived,” Aramis says, words muffled by Porthos’ shoulder.

“I know,” Porthos soothes.

“But you saw them,” Athos says. “Even if Richelieu doesn’t love Treville, the Captain’s well treated. Tales of the Senator’s cruelty are obviously exaggerated. And in the end it’s Treville’s choice. We thought Richelieu had something on him, but I am satisfied now that Treville makes this choice freely.”

“As am I,” Porthos says.

Aramis sniffles. “I suppose I will have to trust your judgment on the matter,” he says grudgingly. “I begin to think mine is suspect.”

“That’s all right,” Porthos says again. He gives Athos a significant look.

Taking the hint, Athos rises. “I’ll come by tomorrow,” he says. “We should discuss what to do with the money, if Treville doesn’t want it for himself.”

“Tomorrow,” Porthos agrees.

He’s completely focused on Aramis. Athos lets himself out.

* * *

The next day Athos returns to find Aramis much more composed. The circles under his eyes speak to a sleepless night, but in the cold light of day he’s calm and reasonable. They discuss the matter of the money rationally and send Athos out to speak to Treville.

On his way out, Athos sees Aramis turn away from Porthos, troubled. But Aramis must deal with his own demons. And Porthos will not leave him to struggle alone.

The Captain, as usual, is to be found in the gladiators’ stables. The sun is already two hours above the horizon. The gladiators are hard at work training for the matches to be held in two months’ time, in honor of the Empress’ birthday.

When Treville sees Athos coming, his face hardens. “I hope you haven’t come to reopen yesterday’s topic,” he says warningly. He crosses his arms over his chest. For the first time it strikes Athos that Treville might be afraid, not of Richelieu, but of Athos. Of all three of them. Of anyone who might push too hard at Treville’s apparent distaste for freedom, and draw the right conclusions. The dangerous conclusions.

“Only tangentially,” Athos says carefully. “My friends and I seem to find ourselves with the funds to purchase a slave. Aramis and Porthos could use an assistant at the stall. And I, an apprentice. We thought that – if you had no wish for the position – you could suggest someone else who would?”

Treville squints at Athos suspiciously. Athos returns the gaze as openly as he can, arms relaxed at his sides, trying to communicate good will.

Abruptly Treville relaxes. “I was hoping you’d ask me that,” he says. “As it happens, I have just the boy.”

He turns and whistles. One of the youths in the practice yard detaches from his bout and jogs in their direction.

“Recently captured from Aquitania,” Treville murmurs to Athos. “Young. Strong. Headstrong, actually, but I think that would suit you right to the ground. What do you think?”

“Possibly,” Athos manages to say. The youth is shirtless, and Athos’ throat is inexplicably dry.

“No noble blood at all,” Treville goes on. “Born a farmer. So he’s no stranger to hard work. He’d do fine in the sands. But he’s sharp, that one. He could do a lot more if he had the opportunity.”

Somehow Athos nods. Treville is giving him a speculative look. The Captain smiles knowingly, and Athos flushes.

“I think he’ll suit you down to the ground,” Treville repeats in satisfaction.

Athos doesn’t reply. He’s mesmerized by the vision arriving before him.

Treville reaches out claps a hand on the youth’s shoulder, turning him to face Athos.

“Athos,” Treville says, “may I present Charles d’Artagnan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Athos/d’Artagnan slash happened and they all lived happily ever after, the end.
> 
> Thanks again to OP for a fantastic prompt and being willing to let me run amok through the fill sprinkling R/T feels everywhere. You’re the best :) I hope you liked it!
> 
> In a perfect world I'd next go back and write the story of the military campaign in Macedonia and the early years of Richelieu and Treville in Rome. ...maybe when I'm finished with [my current long!fic-in-progress](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2718833)? Would there be interest in that?


End file.
